


Lying Low

by Oilan



Series: Cette Verve de Jeunesse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-07 00:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10348365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Faced with the potential danger of a spy in their midst, Feuilly and Courfeyrac bond.





	1. Chapter 1

October 1830.

The affiliation of the Friends of the ABC with the Cougourde d’Aix, having lasted only a few years at this juncture, had so far been a fruitful one. The more the two groups interacted, the closer-knit they became, and at the end of every meeting it had become inevitable that the majority of the members would lapse into friendly chatter after the more serious business had been completed. This evening’s meeting was no exception, and though the gathering at the quarries on the plain of Issy had been merely to discuss recent events and near-future plans, both groups having just barely gotten back on their feet after July, it was well past midnight by the time the Friends of the ABC took their leave.

On this occasion, Feuilly and Courfeyrac had paired off to walk back to their lodgings, their other friends splitting off into groups of two or three and heading off in different directions to avoid suspicion. The way north from the plain of Issy was relatively deserted, the pavement shining under the street lamps from the recent rain, though the pair encountered more and more students out and about as they neared the Latin Quarter.

Courfeyrac had weaved an arm through Feuilly’s, his step light, in his usual high spirits after an evening of banter and politics. Feuilly smiled at this, though after a few minutes of walking, he found himself experiencing an odd feeling, a sort of wariness which pricked his ears and sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. He turned his head as subtly as he could to check behind them, and found that his instincts had not led him astray. There in the shadows, barely perceptible, was a dark shape, keeping pace with them some distance back.

Brow knitted, Feuilly tugged gently at Courfeyrac’s arm, turning down a side street and hoping their sudden change in direction appeared natural enough not to draw any additional suspicion. Halfway down the street, he glanced behind again; the person, whoever it was, had followed. Again, Feuilly pulled at Courfeyrac’s arm to get his attention, and it took but once significant look for him to understand what was happening. Without a moment of hesitation, Courfeyrac slumped against Feuilly as though drunk, and struck up a warbling, incoherent song. 

Taking up the ruse, Feuilly said, “Come, friend. Let’s get you home.” He cringed a little at his own voice which, though steady, seemed to him a touch too loud to seem natural.

Their progress north was slow, with Feuilly pretending to support Courfeyrac’s weight and their winding path through the darkest alleys. Every so often one or the other would check behind, hoping their act had been enough to persuade their pursuer that they were merely young men out too late after too many drinks. Whoever was following them was always behind and, moreover, seemed to be increasing his pace just as they were crossing the Place Saint-Michel.

There was nothing else they could do. With a quick glance at each other, they dropped all pretenses and broken into a run. Immediately, Feuilly heard the footsteps behind them quicken as the person behind them gave chase.

They sprinted north, past the Rue de Grès, past the dark and empty Sorbonne, went east down the Rue du Foin, north again up the Rue des Anglais, running down one street and then another in a purposefully confused path, attempting to shake off their pursuer.

The soles of Feuilly’s shoes, worn and long overdue for being replaced, did not have enough traction to prevent him from sliding on the wet paving stones. Several times he nearly took a nasty fall, and each time Courfeyrac would grab him by the elbow, still running, and pull him steady again. Their pursuer was, perhaps, having a similar problem, as his footsteps faltered whenever they took a sharp turn, and they were gradually becoming more faint. Maybe, thought Feuilly, as he heard the _smack_ of someone falling to the damp ground behind him, they could get away after all.

In their haste, however, they made a critical error. Increasing their pace, certain they at last had the advantage, they turned north onto the Quai Saint-Michel one street too far west to take them across the little bridge they needed to leave the Left Bank.

The road ended, with the sharp drop into the Seine ahead, and while Feuilly tried to skid to a halt, he slid again on the wet paving stones and could not stop. For one brief moment he was left breathless with the anticipation of cold water surrounding him, of his feet stretching downward for purchase and finding none, of sinking into the darkness. A moment later, he felt himself yanked backward; Courfeyrac had lunged forward, wrapping an arm around his chest to pull him back, but he slipped as well and they both fell hard to the ground.

Necessity meant that Feuilly was only down for an instant. Without sparing a thought for the near miss, nor for any bruises from his fall, he leapt to his feet, pulling Courfeyrac up along with him and, with a flash of dread, saw their pursuer running down the street at them, maddeningly avoiding the street lamps to prevent them from seeing his face.

“Go!” said Courfeyrac suddenly, shoving something small into Feuilly’s hand and gesturing down the quay to the nearest bridge. “Run! We’ll split up.”

Feuilly did not waste time agreeing. He turned and ran down the bank, sparing but a moment to wonder if his poor shoes would render him the easier target, but he could not hear any footsteps following him. Once across the bridge and the Île de la Cité and then onto the Right Bank, he resumed a meandering path, though it soon became clear he was alone.

The street Feuilly found himself on was no more than a tiny alley, blessedly empty, and dark enough that he felt safe to stop for a moment, doubled over with his hands on his knees, to try to catch his breath. He had been so focused on escaping their pursuer, whoever he was, that he had not registered that the object Courfeyrac had given him, still gripped tightly in his fist, was a key. Supposing Courfeyrac had meant to meet back in his flat, Feuilly, after poking his head out from the alley and looking around to ensure he was alone, turned and backtracked east, down the Rue des Lombards and then onto the Rue de la Verrerie.

Courfeyrac had moved into his current flat only recently, a few weeks after what had happened in July—after that theft. Often, Feuilly wondered whether any of them would ever be able to think of those three long days, and the events that had followed, without the acrid sense of defeat. Even Enjolras, whose eye was always fixed on the future regardless of whether they had suffered a disappointment or gained a victory, would grow steely and cold whenever anyone would so much as allude to the matter.

Regardless of how much they presently stung from the betrayal, Feuilly knew it would all be forgotten once they tried again and succeeded. He got the sense that Courfeyrac felt this as much as he did, and that this was the reason he had left the Latin Quarter, with its beloved streets and locales and all the friends who lived there, for a residence nearer to the Hôtel de Ville. It was easier to keep an eye on everything, and to be the first to act should another chance at a successful uprising present itself. If Feuilly could afford it, he would certainly have followed suit.

He reached Courfeyrac’s new address, number 16, in due time, and was met by the portress, who looked up from her needlework, frowning slightly at so late an interruption.

“Who have you come here to see, Monsieur?” she asked, rising and setting her work down on her vacated seat.

Momentarily puzzled at the inquiry, Feuilly remembered that he was no longer visiting a friend in the Latin Quarter, where the concierges were so used to students coming and going at all hours.

“Oh, euh- Monsieur Courfeyrac.”

“Monsieur de Courfeyrac left hours ago and has not yet returned.”

“He’s sent me to wait in his flat,” said Feuilly, showing her the key in his hand.

The portress eyed him curiously, as though wanting to ask what exactly he was up to, that he should be waiting alone in a tenant’s flat, but decided against it. Instead she gave a little nod, and turned to lead him up the stairs to Courfeyrac’s apartment, staying at his shoulder until he unlocked the door and entered.

After groping in the darkness to light a lamp, Feuilly discovered that the inside of the flat was, quite frankly, a mess. Though Courfeyrac had lived there for over a month, half of his belongings were still packed away in trunks, crates, and boxes, which were all strewn haphazardly about the sitting room. The essentials, clothing Courfeyrac wore each day and a few books, were piled into the wardrobe and onto the bookshelf respectively. For a moment, Feuilly almost felt safe, ensconced in all of this domestic chaos, but the events of the last few hours crept up on him.

Who was it that had followed them? A gendarme, ever more wary after the uprising in July, assigned to break up troublesome assembled groups? Could the Cougourde itself have a spy? Could their own Society? If so, it was fortunate that their affairs had been only vaguely discussed tonight, with more solid plans with one another being saved until each group had firmly found its footing again.

A gendarme could be handled easily. Both groups would have to lie low, be more careful about when and where they met for a time, until the trail was lost and the gendarme found other, more solid leads to pursue. A spy, however, was more difficult. He would have to be flushed out somehow and, once that was done, he would have to be persuaded or otherwise dealt with to ensure he did not compromise either group’s activities. The trouble was that this man had kept to the shadows so carefully that Feuilly had not seen his face, nor could have said whether he had been present at the meeting with the Cougourde or amongst the ranks of the Friends of the ABC, or whether he was someone else entirely. The man, however, had almost certainly caught a good look at Courfeyrac and himself.

These thoughts occupying his mind, Feuilly paced, or did so as well as he could with so many boxes in his way. It was no good; he could not solve this alone. He would have to wait until later, until he could discuss the incident with the other principle members of their group, before anything could be done. They only thing he could do at present was wait for Courfeyrac to return and hope that he, at least, had caught a glimpse of their pursuer.

Unable to remain still, Feuilly continued to move about the room, looking for something to do. He folded a shirt that had been flung over the back of a sofa, then tossed it back to where it originally had been. He went over to the window to look outside but, realizing the danger in revealing his location to passersby, checked himself. He instead walked over to the bookshelf to sort through the volumes Courfeyrac had already unpacked, surreptitiously paging through a well-worn copy of _Thérèse Philosophe_ before blushingly placing it back on the shelf, as though he expected to be caught at it. It was then that another unanswerable question wormed its way into his head.

How was it that he had escaped the gendarme, or spy, or whoever it had been chasing them? He had clearly been struggling while running, his shoes slipping on the wet paving stones. Surely he had been the easier target, and yet somehow he had gotten away—it had almost been too easy. Why had the pursuer chosen to follow Courfeyrac—for Feuilly assumed he _had_ followed Courfeyrac rather than giving up the chase entirely—and not him? And moreover, where was Courfeyrac now? Had he been able to get away?

A loud knock at the door startled Feuilly out of his reverie, and he stood frozen, afraid the portress had given in to her suspicions, or worse, that their pursuer had discovered him. Logic caught up with him a moment later: Courfeyrac did not have his key, and of course he would have to knock.

A voice with a slight Provençal accent confirmed this, calling, “It’s me! Mère Veuvain said you were here!”

Feuilly almost ran to the door to open it, and Courfeyrac stepped inside, looking rather worn out but brightening once catching sight of Feuilly. “You’re here in one piece!”

“ _You’re_ here in once piece!” said Feuilly, shutting the door. “I was beginning to think you’d been caught.”

“Not caught, but not quite here in once piece,” said Courfeyrac, flopping down into an armchair and wiping his brow with his sleeve. He was still out of breath, but before Feuilly could voice his concern at his comment, Courfeyrac continued, “Mère Veuvain insists upon calling me ‘Monsieur _de_ Courfeyrac’ no matter how many times I correct her. It’s maddening! As if we didn’t have enough trouble tonight.”

“But where did you go? How did you get away?”

“Well, how else? I ran; I was pursued. I ran more, weaving about the streets like a madman until I found myself alone and could safely sneak back to the Latin Quarter- And do sit down; I hope you haven’t been standing this whole time on my account.” Courfeyrac made to gesture at an empty seat but realizing every one was piled high with boxes, insisted on Feuilly taking his own chair while he perched on the arm of the sofa. “I went back to the Latin Quarter to find Enjolras,” he clarified, once they were both settled again.

Feuilly almost leapt up again at this. “And did you? What did he say?”

“I _did_ , and not much, though I could tell he was very angry. We are to lie low—the group as a whole but the two of us in particular. No one else was followed, as far as we are aware, and whoever was after _us_ could easily recognize both of us. Enjolras will alert the leader of the Cougourde and we will all watch each of our own men carefully.”

“That’s all very well,” said Feuilly, still sitting at the edge of his seat. “But the problem is that we have no information about the person following us. It was a man, or I _assumed_ it was, but I did not get any sort of look at him. Did you?”

“Not at all.”

“Well,” Feuilly said, but did not quite know what to say. “Well. We- I suppose we can do nothing but go about our business until-“

“Our _innocent_ business,” Courfeyrac emphasized, wrinkling his nose as though he could not stomach the idea of playing billiards and skipping classes without the possibility of participating in illicit political meetings.

“Our innocent business,” Feuilly amended, the corners of his mouth twitching up despite himself. “And see whether or not the spy, or gendarme, shows himself again.”

Courfeyrac heaved a sigh, and the pair lapsed into silence for a few minutes. It was only now, during the first bit of relative stillness they had had that evening, that Feuilly realized how exhausted he felt. He was about to say as much, and suggest it was time he left for his own lodgings, when Courfeyrac spoke up again.

“This business of lying low should probably begin now, you know. You can stay here; it’s not safe for either of us to be out and about any more tonight.”

“You’re certain?” Feuilly found himself relieved he would not have to walk any farther in the dark.

“Of course!” Courfeyrac stood and strode over to one of the trunks near the window and rifled through it, finally pulling out a spare nightshirt. “Here you are. This may be a bit long for you, but it’s warm enough.”

They dressed for sleep in silence and, a few minutes later, had both settled into Courfeyrac’s bed, for there was nowhere else in the crowded flat to place a spare mattress. Feuilly was ready to drift off the moment he placed his head on the pillow—he had to be at work early the following morning—but Courfeyrac still seemed to want to talk.

“‘Lie low!’” he said, rolling onto his side to face Feuilly. “What are we supposed to do? Not attend meetings at such a critical time? We were almost back on our feet after-” He broke off, and an uncharacteristically bitter expression crossed his face. It made an odd, uncomfortable sensation settle in the pit of Feuilly’s stomach.

“We will have to be especially careful. That is all—and we are quite used to that,” Feuilly said, trying for a bracing tone while still feeling dismayed himself. “Put on a display of innocence.” Then he added, in an attempt to cajole Courfeyrac into his usual good spirits: “You will have to play an extra game of cards in a café. Skip an extra class.”

That was enough to bring a smile back to Courfeyrac’s face, and everything felt a little more normal again. “I’m already skipping all of my classes; I’d have to enroll in another just to skip it, thereby giving the law school much more attention than it deserves, and that would be a terrible shame. And you? What will you do?”

“ _I_ still have to go to work.”

“No billiards and cards for you? But what could appear more innocently apolitical than a man too infatuated with being a gamester to have any real opinions?”

“I would not call the apolitical innocent in this climate, but point taken.”

“Aha! Perhaps I’ll woo you into a life of leisure.”

“Oh yes,” said Feuilly, yawning and burrowing deeper into the bedding. “Take me to the theater; make me play dominoes. We’ll throw off all suspicion in no time, and I’ll be indistinguishable from you degenerate students.”

Courfeyrac finally laughed at that. “Oh, God forbid! We need you to remain yourself, and balance out our ridiculousness with your practicality.” He was silent for a moment, drawing the coverlet up around his shoulders, and then said more quietly: “I should like to go to the theater with you. I’m sure you’d have all sorts of opinions about it.”

“Hmm.” Feuilly was used to being engaged in the occasional bout of humor of which his friends were so fond, but never knew quite what to do with Courfeyrac’s particular brand of sincerity. He let the conversation slip into silence, and after a few minutes, heard Courfeyrac’s breathing slow as he drifted off to sleep.

One odd misgiving, perhaps related, in a way, to their last few comments to each other, would not leave Feuilly alone long enough to let him sleep as well. He bit his lip and nudged his friend gently. “Courfeyrac? I’m sorry, but I have just one more question.”

“Hm?” Courfeyrac nuzzled a bit into the pillow. “What is it?”

“How did I get away from the man following us?”

Courfeyrac cracked an eye open, his brows knitted. “We separated, you ran in one direction and I in the other, and the loathsome fellow chose me to follow instead of you.”

“But why is that?” Feuilly raised himself on an elbow to look down at Courfeyrac, who seemed to be forcing a blank expression. “Was I not the easier man to follow? He doubtlessly saw how much I was slipping on the pavement.”

“Perhaps he made a poor decision.”

“Courfeyrac, you did something to direct him to that decision, didn’t you?”

“You are so suspicious of me! Yes, all right. I slowed down, and he chose to run after me.” He gave Feuilly a look of surprise, having caught sight of his frown. “Oh, don’t look so unhappy. You would have done the same for me, if our situations were reversed.”

These words struck Feuilly oddly for some reason, though the notion of Courfeyrac understanding the tiniest intricacies of other people was no revelation. Had Feuilly been caught, he would have spent the night in jail, or worse, and would certainly have lost his only means to earn a living as a result; Courfeyrac, as a student, would have suffered consequences much less severe.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” said Feuilly finally, settling back down on the bed, feeling half awkward and half touched.

“Come, _I’m_ supposed to be the ridiculous one.” Courfeyrac smiled. “You know I would not have let myself be caught—and if I _had_ , you could have paid me back by rescuing me. Does that suit you?”

Though he gave a little huff, Feuilly could not fight back a smile in turn. “Well. Thank you.”

Courfeyrac grinned even wider and, in fit of affection, flung an arm over Feuilly’s back and pulled him close. “Don’t mention it, dear fellow. Now do go to sleep. We need to save our strength to play the part of innocence tomorrow, and I don’t know about you, but running from mysterious strangers all night makes me absolutely _exhausted._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

A week passed without incident. Enjolras had alerted Monsieur Renard, chief of the Courgourde’s group in Paris, of the situation, and both leaders agreed to keep their respective societies under close watch for any suspicious behavior. Meanwhile, their most trusted men were also informed of the threat, and would all help to keep an eye out for any gendarmes or police inspectors who seemed to show themselves a little too often.

Much to Feuilly’s dismay, Enjolras had also advised that he and Courfeyrac abstain from meetings for the time being. They were, of course, to attend to any other necessary business required of them, be it work or class, but otherwise remain in their respective lodgings. It seemed a real possibility that their pursuer had lost their trail, and it was vital they not be rediscovered.

For the first time since childhood, Feuilly caught a glimpse of what his life would have been like had he not involved himself in politics, and he had to admit he was far from enjoying it. Going to work at the atelier each day, only to then eat his meager dinner before returning home, grew quickly monotonous and from there, utterly frustrating. The most he could do whenever he was required to leave his garret room was to keep his eyes open, to check carefully for anyone who seemed to be following him again, but he noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

As disheartening as all of this was, Feuilly tried to take solace in the fact that while he could not actively participate in the Society at present, he was not left uninformed. The day following evening meetings, Enjolras and Combeferre would alternate in stopping by his flat to relate all that was going on and to stay for an hour or two to keep him company.

“I know it must feel awful, being shut up indoors so often,” said Combeferre to him one day, during one of his visits. He had taken pity on Feuilly and had brought along a vast stack of books for him to borrow, for which Feuilly was immensely grateful. Presently, they were engaged in looking through the collection, piled high on the little writing table in the corner. “It’s necessary, of course, but even that thought doesn’t help matters, I’m sure.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Feuilly, picking up a copy of Saint-Simon’s _L’Organisateur_ and flipping through its heavily annotated pages. “It might be a little more bearable if I knew how long this is to last—though I suppose I can’t be holed up in hiding _forever_.” He paused, and then added: “But how long _do_ you think it might be, if this spy or gendarme is never caught?”

Combeferre shook his head. “I don’t know. Until we are reasonably certain our work and whereabouts have not been uncovered? It’s not a real answer, I’m aware. Enjolras has a better sense of this sort of thing than I do. You won’t be barred from meetings _forever_ —that I _can_ say.”

“I’ll be patient, then.”

“It’s for the best, for everyone’s sake—though I do wish Courfeyrac took your view on the matter,” said Combeferre, turning over a book in his hands absentmindedly, unable to withhold a small, exasperated grimace.

This comment caught Feuilly rather off-guard, though he could not think why, but he tried not to seem too amused at Combeferre’s impatience. “I suppose he complains about our situation.”

“Unceasingly. He talks of almost nothing else. I expect him to enact an escape attempt any day now.”

Here, Feuilly could not hold back a laugh. “I can’t say I blame him—I have half a mind to join him, and do the same!”

He had not meant this last rejoinder to ring so true, but after Combeferre took his leave Feuilly, left alone with his thoughts again, realized how much it had. Courfeyrac was the only other person in precisely the same situation in which he had found himself, and it would certainly have been some small comfort to be able to speak with him. This, of course, would have required an ‘escape attempt’ in the form of a potentially incriminating walk over to the other’s flat—something Feuilly was unwilling to risk, though he had thought of it many times. As such, Feuilly had not seen Courfeyrac since the morning following their escape, after wriggling out from beneath his arm in the dark hours before dawn.

The knowledge that Courfeyrac was as terribly frustrated as he himself did not provide any consolation, but Combeferre’s wryness about the situation assuaged any worries he might have had. The idea of it would catch Feuilly at odd times during the following few days, while washing his brushes at work or while walking home in the evenings, and make him smile. He could imagine Courfeyrac in his flat, pacing about in front of a peeved Combeferre or a stone-faced Enjolras, being exceedingly vocal about his displeasure at not being of any real use, or else begging to be allowed out of doors.

It was during these moments that Feuilly felt his resolve to be patient falter. Against his better judgement, he would wonder whether they would be in any actual danger should they be seen together again, or whether it would be safe to merely visit Courfeyrac in his lodgings and at the very least stay indoors together. Several times, when this mood struck him, Feuilly was on the point of quitting his own room, setting on acting rather than waiting, patience and prudence be damned, but an odd, awkward feeling in his gut always held him back.

As such, it was several more days, still without any sign of suspicious persons, before Feuilly saw Courfeyrac again.

It was just past noon, on a crisp autumn day that seemed to make the air feel fresher, even in the crowded heart of Paris. Even stuck inside a dusty workshop, Feuilly could enjoy it; the cool light filtering in through the windows made every color of his fans show brighter and more true. Presently, he had set aside his work and was taking his turn at the washbasin in the corner of the room, rinsing the worst of the paint off his hands before taking a quick midday meal. After only a moment of scrubbing, one of his fellows, a young apprentice no older than sixteen, nudged him in the ribs.

Rather irritated, Feuilly did not raise his eyes from the washstand. “Paget, wait a moment, would you? You’ll have your turn in a minute.”

“Don’t you know that fellow out there, Monsieur Feuilly?” the boy asked, completely ignoring Feuilly’s question. Perplexed, Feuilly lifted his head. Paget had one hand at his face, scratching his pockmarked cheek, and with the other was pointing behind them at the front of the workshop’s large main room. “You are always running around with your student friends, aren’t you?”

Frowning, Feuilly turned around to look. Courfeyrac was just outside, standing in a patch of sun as though trying to soak up as much warmth as the autumn day could offer, tipping his hat whenever a member of the atelier exited the workshop to run out to the café down the street.

“He seems very friendly,” said Paget, with the air of one making an astute observation. “He probably came here to visit you.”

“ _Thank you,_ Paget.”

“Oh! You’re welcome.”

Successfully resisting the urge to shake his head at the boy, Feuilly dried his hands on a spare rag and went outside to join his friend, not bothering to grab his coat along the way.

“There you are!” said Courfeyrac, before Feuilly could make a proper greeting. “I don’t know about you, my dear fellow, but I’ve grown exceedingly tired of all this business.”

A little surprised by this abruptness, Feuilly asked, “Business?”

“Oh, you know! This whole business of lying low, of hiding from whoever was tailing us. We should call it ‘make Courfeyrac and Feuilly go out of their minds with boredom’ business. I do not mean to push my own feelings onto you; I just assumed.”

“You assumed correctly,” said Feuilly. “Though that title is quite a mouthful.”

“Forgive me!” he said, giving a smile which was not as bright as his usual. “I’m clearly not at my best or most witty—I’ve been locked away in my flat far too long.” He poked absentmindedly at a loose paving stoke with the tip of his walking stick, a little furrow appearing between his brows. “Without anyone to speak with, I am now prone to thinking anything I say is clever.”

Noting his friend’s mood and endeavoring to keep the tone light, Feuilly said, “Well, you’re outside now. So what do you mean to do, exactly?”

“Ah! I mean to woo you,” Courfeyrac replied and, before Feuilly could be too taken aback by this, added, “into a life of leisure.”

Feuilly suppressed a smile. “Ah, yes. I remember.”

“Good! And rest assured, I come prepared.” Courfeyrac reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two slips of paper with a flourish. “Tickets to the theater for tonight! I told you I should like to go to the theater with you, and I’ve picked the perfect performance. Come, what do you say? Do you feel up to a little risk this evening?”

“I…” Feuilly bit his lip. He was, in fact, ready to jump at the chance at not only being able to spend time with Courfeyrac, something he had been longing to do for two weeks, but also to be able to attend the theater—a rarity for him—but something held him back.

Courfeyrac’s smile faltered. “Of course, if you don’t want to attend, there is no obligation.”

“No, no! It’s only- Well. Those tickets must have cost-"

“You are not to worry about that. I assure you!”

But still Feuilly hesitated, and Courfeyrac was forced to take up a new tactic. “Very well. It is no matter. I will just have to find someone else to use this ticket—someone else who will properly appreciate _La Siège de Corinthe_. You know,” he said, calmly surveying Feuilly, whose eyes had widened. “The opera Rossini wrote to commemorate the Greek’s fight for their independence? The one which even now still rages as the Greeks struggle for their own sovereign nation, and which-"

Feuilly grabbed one of the tickets from his hand. “Fine! I am convinced.”

A grin, a genuine one now, spread over Courfeyrac’s face, and Feuilly was entirely caught off guard by the warmth in it though, surely, he had seen Courfeyrac smile like that many times before. “Excellent! I did not expect it to take much in the way of persuasion.”

Feuilly was too pleased by the turn of events to be actually miffed at this teasing. “You know me too well, my friend.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, or even possible.” For only a moment, Courfeyrac’s gaze settled into something a little softer, before his smile was back in full force. “Tonight, then? Perhaps it would be best to meet outside the _Salle_ rather than arriving together. And don’t breathe a word of this to Enjolras or Combeferre! I won’t have you persuaded to be good and abandon our scheme!”

 

* * *

 

Feuilly was dimly aware, after the final curtain of _Le Siège de Corinthe_ had fallen, after he and Courfeyrac had exited the _Salle Le Peletier_ and were walking slowly through the dimly lit streets back to their respective lodgings, that he had been talking on for quite some time. It was rude, he knew, to not allow Courfeyrac an opening to interrupt with his own comment or opinion, but even so, Feuilly was too enthralled to be able to stop.

“Not to mention, of course, that surely the war in which the Greeks are currently embroiled will serve as a suitable example for other nations under similar circumstances of imperial rule, especially if they were to succeed. Poland and Hungary, for instance, would benefit greatly if another country elsewhere threw off the forces that seek to take the sovereignty, the very _identity_ , of its people. Why, Poland may yet look to the Greeks for inspiration in shaking off her chains, for any nation’s situation, when outside forces seek to snuff it out, are at its heart under similar circumstances as Poland has been since 1772. Their people may…”

The opera had been a marvelous, inspiring, _thrilling_ affair, and the final act had shaken Feuilly to his very core. He had spent much of the last scene fervently outlining an article of the Society’s next pamphlet in his mind, repeating to himself key phrases before he could forget them, and vehemently wishing he had brought along a pencil with which to scribble down ideas.

At his side, Courfeyrac continued to walk along in silence. At first, Feuilly had attributed this quietness to the heartrending conclusion of the opera—fictional tragedies always made Courfeyrac tearful—but long after he had wiped his eyes on a handkerchief and stopped sniffling, he did not say much of anything. After a while, Feuilly looked at him, and found Courfeyrac looking back and listening intently, with a small smile and a red nose, and this distracted Feuilly enough that he abruptly stopped talking.

Perhaps thinking Feuilly had stopped speaking out of embarrassment, Courfeyrac said gently, “I knew you’d find some inspiration from this opera. Why did you think I was so keen on seeing this one in particular with you?” He nudged Feuilly with an elbow. “You are the only one who can properly appreciate it.”

Warmed, Feuilly replied, “You seemed to have appreciated it too—though perhaps, _euh,_ for different reasons.”

“True enough. I could barely see through Pamyra’s final scene—it was more tragic than even the ending of _La muette._ ”

“You do seem to enjoy your tragic heroines,” said Feuilly, pressing Courfeyrac’s arm.

Courfeyrac sighed. “I do, indeed. But let’s not talk about that; it will only result in more grief. Tell me instead: Should Greece gain independence, and Poland look to them for revolutionary inspiration, how easily could their goals be realized as well? I have trouble conceptualizing it, since their situations are not like ours. We are not held by outside forces, whether our government is favorable or not.”

Pleased at the topic, Feuilly took it up readily. It was gratifying to have someone with which to discuss these sorts of hypotheticals, and their conversation only ended when Courfeyrac slowed to a halt some time later.

It took a moment for Feuilly to notice that they had stopped outside his own building, and upon realizing as much, his heart sank. Just like that, their evening was at an end—back to work, back to discretion tomorrow. The little furrow appeared between Courfeyrac’s brows as it had that morning, and he remained silent, as reluctant as Feuilly to say his goodbyes.

Feuilly bit the inside of his cheek and after thinking for a moment said, trying for nonchalance but not quite succeeding in keeping a slightly embarrassed tone out of his voice, “You know, since you have taken pains to _woo_ me, it is only natural that I should want to invite you up to my room for a bit.”

“For more leisure time?” Courfeyrac asked, trying to keep a serious tone.

“Of course.”

Somewhat flustered at his own joke, Feuilly turned to lead Courfeyrac into his building and up the stairs to the top floor.

The room Feuilly had let was not large by any means, and certainly not as nice as Courfeyrac’s new apartment. The floor creaked, the wallpaper was stripped away in places and sun-bleached in others, but Feuilly had taken some steps over the years to ensure the cramped flat was at least comfortable, with a bed in one corner, an old writing desk in another, a crooked bookshelf, and a small armchair.

He offered this last to Courfeyrac, and his friend acknowledged the hospitality with a nod but, as he had not been to Feuilly’s often, favored looking about the room instead. After glancing out of the window, perhaps to ensure they had not been followed, he strode over to the bookshelf to poke through Feuilly’s little library.

“You have quite a varied collection here, my friend, though there is one flaw.”

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“Not nearly enough novels! Your library is very intellectual, it’s true—practically overflowing with knowledge—but how do you manage when you feel the urge to read something lurid and mindless?”

“Well, I do have one or two friends from whom I can borrow,” said Feuilly, looking down to hide his smile as he seated himself at his desk.

“Ah! Be careful what you say, or I will deliver my entire library to your doorstep—and I know you cannot resist reading any book within your reach. Before you know it, your brain will be filled with mysterious Gothic castles, ghosts, and romances!”

“Perhaps. Though I don’t think I could enjoy them as much as you would like me to.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “I’m certain I have one or two novels that would please you, whether you admit it or not.”

He abandoned the bookshelf to cross over to where Feuilly sat, wanting to see what volumes were piled on the desk. After a moment he wrinkled his nose, holding up a well-loved collection of Charles-Augustin de Coulomb’s publications regarding electricity and magnetism. “Combeferre’s or Joly’s?”

“Combeferre’s. He’s been bringing me over books to help me pass the time.” Feuilly paused. “He and Enjolras won’t be pleased, should they find out where we’ve been tonight, will they?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Courfeyrac. “Enjolras merely _advised_ us in what we should do. He’s not wrong, but I’m willing to bet even he would not be able to follow his own orders, if he was in our place.” He examined, and then tossed aside, the first volume of Saint-Hilare’s _Philosophie anatomique._ “Combeferre expects you to pass the time with _this?_ My friend, I repeat my offer—do remind me to bring over something else! Something by Hugo or Byron-"

_“Byron!”_ cried Feuilly, before he could stop himself.

Courfeyrac looked up at him, amused. “Yes, Byron! Why not Byron?”

“I did not think you were at all enamored with anything the _English_ have done—rather the opposite, in fact. And, well, the man himself was rather-" Here he cast around for a tactful descriptor. “-Ridiculous, I suppose.”

Feuilly did not expect Courfeyrac to be truly offended, no matter what he said about Byron, but he certainly did not expect his friend to throw back his head for a hearty laugh.

“Ridiculous! Of course he was ridiculous! Romantics usually, are in one way or another. Such a deeply suffering soul—or at least, I’m sure he thought so of himself. But still, Byron was a true genius with words, capturing the true spirit of the sublime. I take it none of this is quite to your taste, however. Have you read any poetry?”

“No. I admit I much prefer more, _euh, educational_ works.”

“And education of the _spirit?”_

“The spirit?” said Feuilly, shaking his head. “You sound like Prouvaire, and it is beginning to alarm me.”

“Very well, very well! Being compared to Prouvaire is beginning to alarm _me,_ so I will desist. Be warned, however: I plan on sitting you down and making you read _one_ of Byron’s poems, at least. Then, perhaps, you will see what I mean.”

“Reading poetry! Is this part of the life of leisure you promised me?” Feuilly asked, privately wishing he had the ability to keep up with Courfeyrac’s archness without feeling diffident. More seriously, he added, “I cannot read English, you know.”

“Then I shall read it to you,” said Courfeyrac. “And- and translate…” His gaze had returned to the desk, and he grew silent upon seeing what else was lying on the tabletop.

Feuilly looked at the desk as well, and saw that Courfeyrac had noticed a pile of spare paper, stacked together hastily to make room for Combeferre’s books, on which Feuilly had been honing his skill in certain painting techniques—mostly the complex decorative patterns he was required to perfect for his fans.

Courfeyrac pulled one of the sheets closer to him to examine it. “Here I was,” he said in a quieter tone, “About to say something about the benefits of being exposed to beauty from time to time. For once, I’m glad I held my tongue.” He traced one patterned line at the edge of the page, taking in the tiny brushstrokes coming together to form a chain of minuscule flowers and leaves. “This really is beautiful, you know. How is it done?”

Thankfully, Courfeyrac was too intent on examining Feuilly’s handiwork to notice his flush, and Feuilly was glad to duck down to rifle through a box of spare paint and brushes beneath the writing desk. He set down a pot of paint and, after slipping an old paintbrush into Courfeyrac’s hand, pushed a new sheet of paper toward his friend. 

Courfeyrac blinked, and then let out a surprised laugh. “My friend, I am no artist!”

“You asked how it was done,” said Feuilly. “All that is required is practice.”

Plainly amused, Courfeyrac dipped the brush into the pot, gathering up entirely too much paint in the process, and daubed a few red strokes onto the page in a vaguely flower-shaped pattern.

“Here,” said Feuilly, smiling slightly and reaching over to adjust Courfeyrac’s grip on the brush handle. “Use the point of the brush, and paint lightly so it stays sharp; your marks will be much more precise.” He lowered Courfeyrac’s hand to the page to make a few tiny, leaf-shaped strokes.

“I see,” said Courfeyrac, and there was something odd in his voice. When Feuilly looked up at him, Courfeyrac was not quite smiling, but a little dimple had appeared at the corner of his mouth and Feuilly, who had been about to add a comment about using the correct amount of paint, found that he could not quite put together any words at all.

They sat there, for a very long, silent pause. It took Feuilly a rather long time to realize he was still holding Courfeyrac’s hand in his own, and he only released it reluctantly. Courfeyrac cleared his throat, a little pink around the ears and Feuilly, embarrassed and wanting something to do with his hands, took up the brush and made a clump of fine strokes, which quickly transformed into a flowering vine.

Courfeyrac merely watched him work for a while. Eventually, in a tone that suggested he did not quite trust himself to keep his voice steady, said, “You- you make it look easy. You’ve been painting fans for how many years now?”

“Twelve.” He had been only fifteen when the head of his atelier had allowed him to work on commissions, rather than merely cleaning the workshop and practicing. “I remember making an unfixable mess of my first fan. I was so anxious to do well, and keep my new position, that I overworked the painting and ruined the entire thing.”

“You’ve never told me that story before,” said Courfeyrac. “And what happened afterward?”

“Well, nothing really. I got a stern talking to, but the head of the atelier was always very kind to me, and allowed me to do it over again.”

“I’m certain your painting could never be so terrible.”

“I assure you, it was.”

“Not nearly as terrible as this, at least,” said Courfeyrac, holding up his first attempt at a flower.

This coaxed a laugh out of Feuilly. “Far worse.”

“I’m not sure I believe you. Rather, I think you are trying to soften the blow. I accept it! I will never be a painter, though the cold truth is easy to bear, for I never fancied myself a painter anyway.”

“Hmm. Sometimes it doesn’t matter whether-“ But Feuilly stopped, and shook his head.

Courfeyrac looked at him curiously. “What is it?”

“Well, I suppose sometimes one becomes something out of necessity, rather than because they fancy it.” Feuilly paused and pressed his lips together, wanting to phrase his words as well as possible. This was not a topic he had broached with anyone before, nor one he necessarily enjoyed thinking about. The kind and attentive expression on Courfeyrac’s face, however, set him slightly more at ease, and he felt almost compelled to continue speaking. “I’m- I’m not certain I would have chosen to become a fan painter, if I had had a choice.”

“I see,” said Courfeyrac, carefully and quietly.“If you don’t mind me asking, then: What _would_ you have become, if the choice was yours to make?”

Feuilly bit at the inside of his cheek again. It was not as though he had not mulled over this very question in the past, but a single answer never seemed to satisfy him. A writer? A lifelong student of history? There were hypotheticals Feuilly enjoyed turning over in his mind: Those of a country’s past, of politics, of the future of the nations he studied. Longing for something of a more personal nature, and particularly for something which could never be, was not useful, nor pleasant.

Clearly, something of Feuilly’s thoughts must have shown on his face, for Courfeyrac said, concerned, “I’m sorry. That was a rather intrusive question and you don’t have to answer if-"

“No, it’s all right,” said Feuilly, trying to shake off his feeling of unease. “I suppose if I had a choice I- I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to be something useful.” He tried to smile. “Something that would give me enough francs to repay my friends for gifts such as opera tickets.”

“There is no need to repay a friend for a gift.” Any trace of a smile was gone from Courfeyrac’s face; he looked entirely disconcerted, and Feuilly experienced an odd twist in the pit of his stomach, as though he had just failed in something important.

“I know,” he said. “But it would be nice to do so, in any case. You cannot be the only one to be giving gifts.”

“Oh?”

“No, of course not. Perhaps- perhaps I would like to treat _you_ to an opera one day,” Feuilly said softly. Courfeyrac had tilted his head, a smile back on his face, and Feuilly found himself very eager to keep it there. “We can go to whichever one you like—an opera with a magnificent set and acclaimed singers.” 

“That sounds wonderful.” Courfeyrac’s smile was so very warm, it was almost too much to look at, but Feuilly could not turn away. “What else would this opera feature?”

“As many tragic heroines as you like, of course” said Feuilly, feeling heat rise in his face. “I know that is a necessity for you.” 

“That _does_ sound lovely,” said Courfeyrac, laughing, and he leaned a little towards Feuilly to reach out and slip his fingers into his hand. The paintbrush Feuilly was holding fell to the tabletop, splattering tiny droplets of paint onto the paper and both of their sleeves, but he curled his fingers around Courfeyrac’s without noticing. 

Shifting forward in his chair, Courfeyrac squeezed his hand affectionately and added, “You’ll have to bring extra handkerchiefs, lest I be forced to ruin my coat during the final act.”

“Of course.” Feuilly paused and, heart beating a little faster as he leaned forward a bit more, said haltingly, “I- I am not speaking in jest, you know. I do wish I _could_ treat you, after-"

But his words were cut short. Courfeyrac’s smile had faded, just slightly, though enough that Feuilly almost despaired over it. In the next moment, Courfeyrac had closed the small distance between them, and pressed his lips to the corner of Feuilly’s mouth.

Feuilly froze, not displeased, but dumbfounded enough that he sat in his chair, unable to think or do anything for one long moment, and he realized too late that this was exactly the wrong reaction to something he found he had been longing for. Having felt Feuilly stiffen, Courfeyrac pulled back immediately, blushing bright red.

“I’m so sorry- Please forgive me. I entirely misread-" He sprang up, and strode quickly to gather up his coat and hat.

Heart pounding, too shocked at the kiss to be able to formulate any sort of response, Feuilly stood up and stared at Courfeyrac as he fumbled with the buttons on his coat. 

“It’s getting rather late, and you’ve been so kind to invite me up. I should go-"

“No, Courfeyrac, it’s quite all right- Really-“ Feuilly, desperately trying to shake off his surprise, stumbled over his own words, and grimaced at himself for doing so. How was it possible that he could speak endlessly about the state of Poland and Greece, but he could not formulate an appropriate response to a very welcome kiss?

It was too late; in his haste to leave Courfeyrac had given up on his coat and was at the door. “Please forgive me,” he said, one final time, looking more miserable than Feuilly had ever seen him. 

And before Feuilly could say anything more, he had closed the door, and was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shoutout to Colonel Despard's [La Rose Couverte](http://archiveofourown.org/works/671585) in this chapter, what with Enjolras whacking someone with Joly's belongings.

Feuilly ended up confessing his escape to Enjolras two days later.

It was not as though he felt he had done anything wrong, precisely. Other than allowing Courfeyrac to excuse himself so hastily at the end of the night, Feuilly harbored no guilt or regrets. Rather, he had been left with a disquieting, uncomfortable feeling constantly nagging at him. It was an odd feeling, something like anxiety, anticipation, and delight all rolled into one, and yet was somehow still troublesome to define. He thought that perhaps sharing in the secret would diminish it in some way—so far, the only times the feeling lessened was whenever he caught sight of the misshapen little flower painting pinned to the wall above his desk.

He did not, however, mention the kiss. It seemed a strange thing to bring up to a friend—especially a friend such as Enjolras, who Feuilly did not think would quite understand—while he was still in the process of mulling over exactly what to do about it.

Feuilly did not expect Enjolras to become angry with him for going against his advice—Enjolras carefully reserved his temper for events of injustice and nothing less—but he certainly did not expect him to give a small smile upon hearing of Feuilly’s ‘escape’.

“I came today to ask that you return to our meetings and end your sequestration,” Enjolras said, with the barest trace of irony. “But it seems you have beaten me to it.”

“I wish I could say I was sorry,” Feuilly replied, pleased at the prospect of being able to go about freely once more. “But _La Siège de Corinthe_ was much too good to pass up.”

Enjolras, who was too disinterested in the theater to have made time to see the opera, merely inclined his head. “A few of us will be at _our_ Corinthe tomorrow afternoon, if you would care to join us. An informal gathering.”

Eager to see his friends again, Feuilly readily accepted the invitation. It was not until after Enjolras had left that he realized he should have asked who else would be there.

During the past two days, Feuilly had wavered between very much wanting to see Courfeyrac, and dreading any accidental encounter with him. He had therefore refrained from seeking him out, and had not heard a word from him since they had last seen each other. It was probably for the best; if there was anything Feuilly disliked in his own life, it was fumbling over an uncertain situation. As such, he endeavored to parse his thoughts, and prepare what he wanted to say to prevent another misunderstanding. 

This, as it happened, was easier said than done. At times he thought he knew exactly how to explain his feelings, and was certain he could soothe Courfeyrac’s worries and assure him he had not misunderstood in the slightest. At other times, it was all Feuilly could do not to bury his face in his hands and surrender to doubt. Seized by this horrible sensation in the most inopportune moments, and always suddenly, Feuilly wondered what he could possibly say to Courfeyrac that could be in any way adequate.

It was therefore with only half-confidence that Feuilly joined his friends at the Corinthe the following day, happy to be outside despite the overcast sky, but partially dreading any awkwardness. He need not have worried—Courfeyrac was absent; only Enjolras, Combeferre, and Joly had decided to come that day.

It was between mealtimes, and so the upper room of the wineshop was quiet and deserted save for their table. Joly and Combeferre were pouring over a heap of notes and reference books—Combeferre would be taking his _internat_ examination in a week or so and Joly was asking him questions to help him prepare. Enjolras was reading _Exposition de la doctrine de St Simon_ and by turns seemed fascinated and disturbed by it. He had asked Feuilly for opinions on a piece of writing he had completed the previous day and, after settling into his chair and receiving a cup of overly bitter coffee from Matelote, this is what Feuilly sought to busy himself with. 

For a half hour, the group sat in companionable silence, apart from exchanges such as “Well then, what do you do in the case of a fellow who complains of listlessness and lack of sleep?”, “Magnets do not figure into the answer, Joly…” from Joly and Combeferre. Feuilly had relaxed a little, though he found some trouble focusing on Enjolras’ writing. More than once he was obliged to reread various sections before he could grasp their meaning, and would stare at the page for another minute or two before being able to cobble together a suitable annotation to scribble in the margins.

Knowing full well the reason for his being on edge, Feuilly took a deep breath and resolved to concentrate. Enjolras’ writing was always eloquent and usually captivated him completely, and he admonished himself for not giving it the attention it deserved today.

On the floor below, someone was heard to enter and then climb the stairs. Feuilly, recognizing the light footstep, experienced a lurch of pleasure and apprehension in the pit of his stomach, and turned around in time to see Courfeyrac clear the last step and hesitate for a moment before approaching their table.

All of the words Feuilly had wanted to say to Courfeyrac, however carefully crafted and oft-repeated to himself they had been, seemed to dissolve in his head instantaneously. Even as his friends greeted Courfeyrac, Feuilly could not utter a sound; his mouth was dry, heart beating fast. Courfeyrac, however, didn't seem to notice; his shoulders were pulled in a little, stiff and uncomfortable, and he avoided Feuilly's eye in favor of looking down to fish something out of his coat. 

“Afternoon, all. I have some correspondence for you,” he said to Enjolras, pulling out a folded slip of paper. “From the polytechniciens. I know you had been waiting for it, and I happened to be passing by this morning.”

“Eager to get back to work?” said Combeferre knowingly, as Enjolras perused the note and then slipped it into his own coat pocket.

“You have no idea,” said Courfeyrac, finally managing a little smile as Gibelotte drifted over to their table.

“Will you be wanting anything, Monsieur?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be staying.”

Gibelotte gave a little nod and walked away, over to the corner where another man had come in and seated himself just after Courfeyrac’s arrival, and then went off to fetch him a glass of wine.

"You've only just got here! Do stay and join us, Courfeyrac," said Joly. He looked around to ensure no members of the Corinthe staff were within earshot before adding, "The coffee is particularly bad today, but the wine isn't. You can help me test Combeferre."

"No, no- I thank you, but I would rather enjoy the fine day," Courfeyrac said, gesturing towards the window. It had started to drizzle.

"It's raining," said Feuilly, finally finding his voice. At last, Courfeyrac turned to him. "You really should stay."

It might have been Feuilly’s imagination, but it seemed as though Courfeyrac’s gaze became a bit softer, just for a moment, but in the next he appeared to check himself. He gave a little shake of the head and said, “That’s really all right. You know, I was so desperate to get out of my flat this week, I went to class not once but _twice._ I’m sure you’ll agree that taking such drastic measures reveals how unhealthy it is to stay indoors for so long. If you’ll excuse me.”

“How odd,” said Joly, rubbing at his nose as he watched Courfeyrac go. “Combeferre, I thought you said he was eager to see us all again. It seems he couldn’t wait to leave—and go walking about in the _rain…_ ”

Feuilly was too preoccupied to hear what Combeferre had to say in response. Before he could even turn around to look, Courfeyrac was gone once more, and Feuilly tried to crane his neck to catch a glimpse of him down the stairs. Gibelotte passed through his line of sight, briefly blocking his view to deliver a glass of wine to the man at the other table, and then gave a little _tsk_.

His attention momentarily diverted, Feuilly looked over at the other table. The other man had vanished, apparently without waiting for his order.

“I know Courfeyrac has an aversion to umbrellas, English and _unfashionable_ as they apparently are,” Joly continued. “But it seems _entirely_ _foolish_ to me.”

A sinking, unsettled feeling weighed in Feuilly’s gut. He turned again to the rest of the table and knew immediately from Enjolras’ frown that he too had noticed the other man’s sudden disappearance. Joly was still talking on, but Combeferre had caught the look Feuilly and Enjolras were giving each other.

“What? What is it?”

“That man,” said Feuilly meaningfully, glancing behind him as Gibelotte passed by again with the wine. “At the other table. He arrived just after Courfeyrac and left exactly when he did.”

Joly had fallen silent, and sat up straighter in his chair. “You don’t think-“

“Come.” Enjolras set some money on the tabletop and took up his hat. “Hurry, before we lose them.”

The group rushed out into the rain, now coming down harder, and paused at the wineshop door to look left and right for where Courfeyrac and the other man had gone. Neither were in sight—they had been just a few seconds too slow.

“Do you think Courfeyrac was heading back to his place?” Joly asked, fumbling with his umbrella.

“It’s our best guess,” said Feuilly. Without a second thought, he started quickly in the direction of the Hôtel de Ville, heart pounding and his friends following close behind. There were multiple paths Courfeyrac and his pursuer might have taken, but Feuilly hoped he had chosen the most logical one, which would be quickest to get Courfeyrac to his destination and out of the rain.

The group walked on for several minutes without seeing anyone at all, and Feuilly began to despair. Perhaps Courfeyrac had been walking elsewhere, or had ducked inside a shop or café to avoid the downpour. Perhaps the man following had already managed to apprehend him. 

They turned corner after corner, the rain coming down harder still, without seeing another soul, everyone else having taken refuge from the rain indoors. Joly had managed to open his umbrella, but the others were walking too fast to share it. Rain and mud splashed onto the hems of their trousers, soaking into their shoes, but Feuilly, at least, paid it no mind. His heart was in his throat until, at last, the group turned onto a side street and spotted their quarry.

Halfway up the street, hurrying home and holding the brim of his hat to prevent it from flying away, was Courfeyrac. Right behind him, hanging back but keeping pace, was the man who had so suddenly appeared and then disappeared in the Corinthe. He was hatless, black hair wet and slicked down, coat collar turned up against the rain, his feet slipping on the wet cobblestones. The falling rain did not quite drown out the sound of his footsteps, but Courfeyrac was much too preoccupied with getting out of the bad weather to notice he was being followed. His pursuer was advancing closer and closer.

A flash of fear shot through Feuilly. Prudence all forgotten, he gave a yell and rushed forward. The spy whipped around and, upon seeing he had been discovered, began to run. Courfeyrac barely had time to cast one surprised look behind himself before the other man struck him across the side of the head, trying to knock him out of the way as he attempted to escape. They grappled for a moment, but Courfeyrac fell, scraping his arm against the wall on one side of the street, his hat flying off.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Joly rushed forward as well. Feuilly had skidded to a halt, his shoes sliding on the wet ground, and bent to grasp Courfeyrac's hand and drag him to his feet. He had thought that this would give the spy the opening he needed to escape, but fortunately Enjolras reacted quickly. Before the spy could gain enough traction on the paving stones to sprint away, Enjolras grabbed Joly's umbrella, closed it, and with one calm and deliberate swipe, used it to knock the man's legs out from under him.

As quickly as it had started, all the action ceased, as if everyone was taking a moment to catch their breaths. 

Courfeyrac was panting at Feuilly’s side. Blood was slowly trickling down the side of his head from a scrape at his brow, dripping onto his coat, which was ripped along one arm. Feuilly realized he was still clutching his hand and slowly, almost apologetically, he let go, not daring to look at Courfeyrac’s expression, whatever it might be. He instead turned toward their felled pursuer.

In the weeks since he had first been followed by this man, Feuilly had not thought to imagine what he might have looked like, but if he had, his imagination would certainly have arrived at something quite different. The man lying on the ground in front of him was not large, nor gruff-looking or scarred or defiant, nor any of the other descriptors one might produce when contemplating the appearance of a spy. He was not a National Guardsman, nor a gendarme. Indeed, he could very well have been one of Feuilly's fellow workers at the atelier following a downturn in business. The man was thin and pale, with threadbare clothes and shoes that should have been replaced months ago. Trapped alongside the building against which he had fallen, he did not try to stand again. His eyes merely darted to each of them, as though wondering what they would do to him now he was caught, but not daring to utter a word to influence his fate.

"Who are you?" Enjolras asked, stepping forward. The tone of his voice commanded an answer. "Why have you taken to following us? Are you a spy? A police informant?”

The man drew back further against the wall, looking frightened for the first time. “I am- My-“

“Your _what?”_ asked Courfeyrac. He seemed more miffed than actually angry as he tried to wipe the blood from his face with this sleeve. “You had better find your voice. Have you gone to the police? Reported on us?”

“No.”

“Then why where you following him?” Combeferre said, gesturing towards Courfeyrac. “Where you _going_ to inform on him? Tell us now: _Are you working for the police?”_

“Not- Not officially,” the man replied. He was looking at Combeferre, but kept glancing back at Courfeyrac’s bloody face as though incredulous at what he had done.

“What do you mean by that?” Feuilly asked.

"I-" The man faltered in his explanation once more but, as it was clear to him that there was no escape, appeared to resign himself to honesty. "I happened upon your meeting a few weeks ago--the one further south, near the quarries. I was not looking for anything; I was just passing by. I saw you two-" Here he nodded at Courfeyrac and Feuilly. "You were leaving and I followed.”

“But we lost you.”

“I found you again,” the man said. “A few days ago. I saw you,“ here he indicated just Courfeyrac, “You were rushing out into the night from some workers’ tenement, and I’ve been tracking you since. I was hoping the police would- would pay. For information.”

Courfeyrac’s face went very red, but he managed to say in steady voice, “You are willing to sell out your fellow man for a few sous?”

The man hunched his shoulders. “I don’t suppose you have a family of your own, Monsieur.”

There was a long silence following this statement. All was now clear. Feuilly bowed his head. Courfeyrac’s expression had fallen, and Joly shifted where he stood, somewhere between discomfort and sympathy. Enjolras and Combeferre, however, glanced at each other as though coming to a wordless agreement.  


“I’m sorry to inform you that the police do not pay for tips,” Enjolras said finally. “You have wasted your time. They will take your information and turn you out without so much as a thank you.”

“You say you were spying for the sake of providing for your family.” Combeferre looked at the man as though appraising him, and then turned toward Enjolras again. “We might speak to you about that.”

Enjolras gave a terse nod, and turned to the others with an expression that plainly said he and Combeferre should be left to deal with the situation alone. The man on the ground watched all of this with an expression of mingled curiosity and fear, not knowing what they meant to do with him.

“We should really get him cleaned up,” said Joly, tentatively, glancing toward Courfeyrac. “I’ll go with him, if the two of you are going to stay here.”

“My place is closest,” Feuilly chimed in. “We can take him there.”

Courfeyrac looked as though he wished to protest, but the blood had seeped down his neck and onto his collar now, soaking through his clothes along with the rain, and he seemed to resign himself. They set off, leaving Enjolras and Combeferre behind to speak with the other man. In their anxiety to find Courfeyrac, it had felt as though they had run a longer distance from the Corinthe than they actually had, and Feuilly lived only a short distance past there.

They walked in complete silence. Preoccupied with the situation, each of them wondering whether the man would be swayed to see their side of things, Joly had forgotten to collect his umbrella from Enjolras, and Feuilly and Courfeyrac did not think to remind him. By the time they reached Feuilly’s flat, they were all thoroughly soaked. Even discounting his wound, Courfeyrac looked utterly miserable; his rain and blood dampened clothes were ruined beyond repair.

“Take off that coat and sit there,” said Joly, waving a hand at Feuilly’s old armchair. “Feuilly, if you could warm up some water for me?”

Once the water had been heated and a washcloth fetched, Joly set to work cleaning off Courfeyrac’s face so that he might see what damage had been done. Feuilly looked on, dripping a puddle of rainwater onto the floor, wincing whenever Courfeyrac did from the pain.

Joly wrinkled his nose, gently pushing back Courfeyrac's hair to get a better look at his injury--a cut near his temple, two finger-widths across. "It- ah. It's not as bad as I thought. Head wounds always bleed a great deal no matter how minor they are. I will have to stitch it, I'm sorry to say."

"Do you really?" asked Courfeyrac, looking more wounded than he had done when he had received the injury in the first place.

"Yes, or it won't heal properly." Joly looked wholeheartedly apologetic. "I will need to run and fetch my supplies from my rooms. In the meantime, just keep this cloth on the wound; it's still bleeding."

Joly pressed the washcloth into his hand and cast a quick, reassuring glance at Feuilly before hurrying out the door. Courfeyrac tried to do as he was told, but the wound seemed to be too painful for him to want to press on it too firmly himself.

“Blasted cut,” he muttered, flinching. 

“Here- let me.” Feuilly reached out a hand to take the cloth and Courfeyrac, to his surprise, let him after only a moment of hesitation. 

He pulled up his desk chair to sit in front of Courfeyrac, face to face, and gently pressed the washcloth to the side of Courfeyrac’s head. Courfeyrac winced, sitting stiff in his chair, eyes large as they flicked over Feuilly’s face. Feuilly felt heat creep up his neck, but refrained from saying anything.

The silence, unfortunately, dragged on as a result. Feuilly could not quite bring himself to look at Courfeyrac directly. Instead he fixed his gaze on a tear in the wallpaper just over Courfeyrac’s left shoulder, almost regretting his insistence on helping.

After a while, Courfeyrac made a face, as though making a great effort to decide on what to say to fill the uncomfortable pause. “So,” he said slowly. “We found our spy.”

“We did.” Feuilly adjusted the cloth at Courfeyrac’s temple. The bleeding had slowed nearly to a stop. “And I’m sure Enjolras and Combeferre will be able to persuade him over to our side.”

“I have no doubt about that. I suppose they have no choice, but personally, I’m not sure whether we should _want_ him on our side. He spied once. We know he has no scruples about doing it again.”

“It was out of desperation.”

“Joining our society will not help him feed his family.”

“It will let him work against the evils that are causing his family to starve in the first place,” said Feuilly firmly. He paused for a moment, and then took a steadying breath before saying, a little shakily, “And I disagree. We are always willing to help our fellows out of various difficulties. None of us are left wanting. Why, I know whenever I have needed help or- or even a little diversion,” he tried to smile, “You have always been there, ready to assist. And I appreciate that—more than you know.”

Courfeyrac sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Feuilly…”

But Feuilly knew what he was about to say, and shook his head. “No, please. You don’t need to-“

“But I do. I would like to at least try to explain myself about- about the other day. I had gotten the entirely wrong impression—through no fault of your own,” he added hastily. “You have treated me with nothing but the utmost patience. Perhaps I simply flattered myself into thinking-"

Feuilly let out an incredulous laugh. Clearly not expecting this, Courfeyrac quite nearly gaped at him. Shaking his head, trying and failing to bring himself under control, Feuilly choked out: “ _Flatter_ yourself?”

It was almost off-putting, seeing Courfeyrac struggle to find the proper reply to something. His brow wrinkled, torn between laughter and sincerity. “I- Yes? I flattered myself into believing an evening out with a friend had turned into something else entirely. I kissed you-"

“If that’s the case, perhaps you should flatter yourself a bit more.”

And before Courfeyrac could respond to this, before Feuilly even knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Courfeyrac’s lips.

It was an awkward position, Feuilly realized, as he was half risen from his seat, half leaning over Courfeyrac, but he could not bring himself to care. His hand, which he had meant to either cup Courfeyrac’s cheek or else weave into his hair, landed somewhere in the middle, his fingers brushing against Courfeyrac’s neck. He felt him shiver, and the very thought that this simple touch— _his_ simple touch—could have such an effect on Courfeyrac sent Feuilly reeling. His knees trembled. Courfeyrac reached out to steady him, gently pulling him closer into an embrace.

They eventually broke away, if only because Courfeyrac was smiling too widely to continue. Feuilly closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Courfeyrac’s, attempting to calm the thundering of his heart.

For a long while, there was silence, though of a very different kind than that of five minutes previously. And again, it was Courfeyrac who broke it.

“You kept my flower.”

Feuilly opened his eyes. Courfeyrac was peering past him, looking over to his desk where the little red flower was still pinned to the wall.

“Of course I kept it.” Feuilly straightened up to look down at Courfeyrac’s face, brushing a disheveled curl from his forehead. “I wish you had seen it first. It would have told you all you wanted to know.”

Courfeyrac flushed. “I feel like such a fool.”

“Now you know how I felt after we saw _La Siège._ ” Feuilly smiled, placing his hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “All your openness and sincerity and wit. How on earth did you expect me to keep up?”

“Ah, nonsense.” Courfeyrac settled his arms around Feuilly’s waist more comfortably. “You are better at quipping than you think, and I’m going to encourage you to tease me as often as possible. We are going to have excellent fun, you and I. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Not too much fun,” Feuilly said, trying for mock-seriousness but unable to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting upward.

Courfeyrac smiled as well, almost helplessly, as if he was trying for humor while shaking off a daze. “Impossible! Such a notion does not exist.”

Feuilly thought for a moment before replying, “Lord Byron, upon coming to Paris, had _too much fun._ ”

Courfeyrac burst out laughing, and embraced Feuilly more tightly, his chin pressing slightly into the front of his waistcoat. “Point taken. But you see—you are flinging drollery at me already. This is good news indeed.”

“Soon I will be as much of a degenerate as any law student,” Feuilly continued, shaking his head. “Perhaps all your wooing has worked. I shall stay out very late every night to go to the theater and dance halls, and indulge myself in whatever I like at every moment.” He did so presently, raising a hand to run his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair. “What will become of me?”

“Clearly I am a _terrible_ influence,” Courfeyrac agreed, leaning into his touch like a well-loved pet. “So far, I cannot regret it. In fact, I shall continue now, as we only have so long before Joly comes back.” He tilted his face upward, reaching to caress Feuilly’s cheek and draw him down closer. “Sometimes, you know, banter should be set aside for even more pleasant things.”

Feuilly was only too happy to oblige, leaning in for another kiss, and eager to bask in Courfeyrac’s smile for as long as he possibly could.


End file.
